of the good?

Book III

Details. The Confessions of an Unscientific Mind

I--Unscientific

I

On Being Intelligent in a Library

I have a way every two or three days or so, of an afternoon, of going
down to our library, sliding into the little gate by the shelves, and
taking a long empty walk there. I have found that nothing quite takes
the place of it for me,--wandering up and down the aisles of my
ignorance, letting myself be loomed at, staring doggedly back. I always
feel when I go out the great door as if I had won a victory. I have at
least faced the facts. I swing off to my tramp on the hills where is the
sense of space, as if I had faced the bully of the world, the whole
assembled world, in his own den, and he had given me a license to live.

Of course it only lasts a little while. One soon feels a library
nowadays pulling on him. One has to go back and do it all over again,
but for the time being it affords infinite relief. It sets one in right
relations to the universe, to the original plan of things. One suspects
that if God had originally intended that men on this planet should be
crowded off by books on it, it would not have been put off to the
twentieth century.

I was saying something of this sort to The Presiding Genius of the State
of Massachusetts the other day, and when I was through he said promptly:
"The way a man feels in a library (if any one can get him to tell it)
lets out more about a man than anything else in the world."

It did not seem best to make a reply to this. I didn't think it would do
either of us any good.

Finally, in spite of myself, I spoke up and allowed that I felt as
intelligent in a library as anybody.

He did not say anything.

When I asked him what he thought being intelligent in a library was, he
took the general ground that it consisted in always knowing what one was
about there, in knowing exactly what one wanted.

I replied that I did not think that that was a very intelligent state of
mind to be in, in a library.

Then I waited while he told me (fifteen minutes) what an intelligent
mind was anywhere (nearly everywhere, it seemed to me). But I did not
wait in vain, and at last, when he had come around to it, and had asked
me what I thought the feeling of intelligence consisted in, in
libraries, I said it consisted in being pulled on by the books.

I said quite a little after this, and of course the general run of my
argument was that I wa